


Sitting next to me

by barryhayes



Category: Iron Man (Movies), Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)
Genre: "i'd rather eat your face than kiss you", Beck on Tony's lap, M/M, POV First Person, POV Quentin Beck, Power Bottom, Quentin Beck captured, Tony Stark enjoying being under Beck's control, Tony's neck and face covered with teeth marks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-14
Updated: 2020-08-14
Packaged: 2021-03-06 07:00:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,764
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25899331
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/barryhayes/pseuds/barryhayes
Summary: You sit next to me and suck on the bottle of beer like a couch sluggard. You know I like beer; you know it and choke on for the show. There’re no expensive jacket or pants with arrows on you: you have finally got out of the shell and sit here open and defenseless while staring on the large TV screen._____________________Feel free to write to me if you see some mistakes.
Relationships: Quentin Beck/Tony Stark
Kudos: 1





	Sitting next to me

You sit next to me and suck on the bottle of beer like a couch sluggard. You know I like beer; you know it and choke on for the show. There’re no expensive jacket or pants with arrows on you: you have finally got out of the shell and sit here open and defenseless while staring on the large TV screen.

I’m on the other end of the couch laying on its orthopedic back like some shapeless invertebrate. The beard of mine hasn’t been shave for weeks, my temples are overgrown with it, the hair tucked over my ears. Look at me: I’m tied hand and foot, your stupid sensors and electric shockers are hanged up all over my body as though I’m a hot-tempered wild beast. You’ve put one of the «collars» for mutants from specialized prisons on me, haven’t you? Seriously? Who the fuck do you think I am?

I firmly push against the floor with my heels despite I supposedly am in your power. I rest my hands on my stomach lazily, watch impartially how the dark silhouettes move on the TV screen.

Know you’re mad at me. So am I. I do often imagine I clench my fingers on your neck; I do often imagine the red and swollen face of yours under my whitened palms. Think you are not far from that in your fantasies: I bet you fight the urge to hit me. But, honestly, I do not care. I’m tired of searching the answers in you because seemingly you do not give them, even to yourself. 

I used to search when you had to stand up on your tiptoes to burn lips in my bristle and grab my jacket with your small square palms to hold the balance. Have you forgotten yet, how that was? That’s easier with girls: you can pick them up under the ass, and that’s all, but you loved to reach for me pressing me against the walls and wordlessly and unknowingly begging me to touch your back and ribs. I was surprised: «Did the blessed Stark really choose not one of his busty secretaries, but some bumpkin-inventor from the lowest floors of SI Tower?»

I used to search, though it was hard to find something besides vulgarity like alcohol and debouch in you. To look deep inside, I had to scrape off that almost keratinized Iron Man mask from your face and to each out your spoiled and vulnerable ego from the shell. I thought it is the way to my success – your weakness nobody crushes on, nobody encourages. To say so, the stone that kills two birds at once: my career question and the soft sniffling of the world’s famous insolent fellow into my shoulder after a couple of sips of whiskey. 

You sit next to me, clenching your teeth, as though I'm going to hit at your jaw. There is no beast you beware, you know? Yeah, you do but still, try to turn everything like it’s me who’s to blame at all deadly sins. Of course, that’s easier to count me as the villain than to justify, but I am still here. Do you understand what that means?  
I stand up, and you grab the shockers’ remote controller at the pocket of your pajama pants. That’s a warning move: «Just step forward, and you’re going to writhe in pain way to the morning.» You do not hide, diligently avoiding my look, though, because you know I always can see through you. From this view, I notice every wrinkle of yours, the light graying hair, and understand you try to behave naturally, like the severe and easy man at once. 

It looks like you’re so, so lost, despite you hold yourself in hands trying to ignore my presence and lazily scratching your goatee. Just admit: I do hold you in my hands in the best way. You pretend you find the «Aliens» movie insanely interesting, and yeah, that surely is a great one, but you haven’t seen me in years, you little cowardly creature. 

***  
His helmet was crashed, when the minivans full of TV reporters and video and sound recording equipment moved to the square. Mysterio had no place to back down: the drones’ remote control had covered the asphalt by tiny pieces of glass from the fountain to the highway nearby. His legs held his body only at the expense of anger spread in the flesh from the ear tips to the toes. The «Fishbowl» was still on the archvillain, but partially the broken glass shards stuck to the protective film were hanging down. The crumpled fabric of the costume with reflective green plates did not seem to be so shiny as it were when Mysterio showed himself up in front of cameras: he’d always turned everything he does into a performance. 

Spider-Man quickly covered the distance between them, grabbed the enemy by the breasts with one hand, and sloppily, like if he had been offended for a long time, took off the helmet. Mysterio had his face covered in small cuts and well-groomed stubble, his cold blue eyes and straight bared teeth a wry grimace of a vexation, angriness, and misunderstanding. 

One of the journalists who’d first arrived in time to the cooling battlefield succeeded to capture the moment of how Quentin Beck, the middle-aged and unemployed engineer-programmer plenty of time not visiting his psychiatrist, furiously catch the boy’s wrist, stared into the camera 

and lost his temper.

***

A clunk of bared heels sticking to the laminate, a low rumbling sound from the subwoofer, an illegible roar of a monster on the TV screen, and a choked sigh. Quentin rests his knee on the couch seat, throws over a leg, and settles down on Tony’s lap at ease. There’s nothing to be embarrassed by for him; as always, the man’s movements are wide and imperious: he knows what he does and what he wants. The warm breathing covers Anthony’s face and blows the dark hair strands off his forehead; the body presses his legs down and warms him up more than expected. 

Stark knows what’s there, under the Beck’s pants and t-shirt. And knows what’s going on in his brain. Not specifically, of course – only the fact that it absolutely is the fucked-up shit. The hero is sandwiched between the couch and Quentin, and the feeling that penetrates him suspiciously resembles the fear. The helplessness fear. It makes his heart miss the beats and tickles the nerves of the neck and shoulders from inside. Alone with other villains, Tony wouldn’t be like this, but here and now it’s fear. The fear that has always brought him to light.

There’s a lot of Beck; there’s a damn lot of him. The air between them is dry and stale. Stark finds the button on the shockers’ remote controller but feels how tenacious fingers firmly intercept his wrist. He cannot choke another sigh. Quentin puts Tony’s hand behind his back, directs it up, closer to the shoulder blades, and arches; grabs the face of Stark in his free palm and makes to look at him. 

Anthony has always been the top, but that was Beck, who for real took him. Stark was physically stronger and more experienced if we speak about fights, but every time it was Quentin, who fully dominated him. Beck spread his legs and Beck took all the control, and Tony entrusted himself into Beck’s hands.

The hands wiped the blood off his scratched face with a warm wet rag and the ketchup – off his chin with a thumb. They grabbed Stark by the collar of his shirts and forced him to somewhere up. They pressed him to the big man along the nights and shut his mouth up when Tony wanted to be loud again, but nobody had to hear him. They smoothed his hair before interviews and smelled like alcohol when he had to share the expensive whiskey and the beer of the famous brand by two.  
Quentin smiles, and the smile slightly reminds the grin Tony saw on the TV when the SHIELD’s agents shoved the defeated Mysterio into the truck. His moles are overgrown with a beard, and there are a lot more resolve in his eyes than ever as if Beck cannot lose anything now. The fingers on the chin of Stark’s clench harder, lift his head face up, and Quentin himself moves closer: he snuggles his crotch to the man’s stomach and goes to his neck down lower and lower.

«The lips are the way too intimate, Stark, so I’d rather eat your face than kiss you».

A burning pressure flashes in the base of the neck and spreads in the whole body: Beck, like a python, monstrous and merciless, coils, tramples and takes over the prey. The surge of pain, the unsuccessful try to escape, and the sound of the shaky breath fluttering on the lungs like a captured butterfly and merging with the other, the evil and predatory one. The panic versus the weight and the size, the feeling of the flight, the decompression, the loss of the support, and the understanding of the situation. The word «helplessness» solemnly pulsing in the ears. The tightness and the constriction. Everywhere.

Teeth, the marks of teeth, the ceiling in front of the eyes; Tony digs his short nails into the man’s back and slides his heels on the bare floor, unable to find balance. The skin burns; there is no breathable air and no escape too. Quentin clenches his face as if he wants to crush his lower jaw and squeeze the blood out his cheeks. Stark tries to reach for the device in the pocket of pants again: there’s a lot of Beck, and he is afraid, there’s too much of him. So much, there will be nothing left of the Stark soon.

And, oh God, Quentin twitches pissed-off, dully and throatily growls, and clicks his teeth right nearby the earlobe – his Adam’s apple vibrates about Tony’s, the butterfly in lungs selflessly beats into the rib cage and seeks for the Master’s paws. Anthony whines something quietly 

and gives up.

In the next ten minutes, his lips are already red and itching, one side of his neck and the face are dazzling with blue and clear jaw marks of Beck.  
Quentin sighs take the beer bottle away Stark’s hands, and seats on the sofa, as if he arranged the show only because of it.

Someday Tony will have EDITH instead of that bottle, and then…

Well, then they’ll surely be quits.


End file.
